


don't get your tinsel in a tangle

by not_so_weary_pilgrim (orphan_account)



Series: maybe the real bounty was the family we found along the way [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Christmas AU, Christmas fic, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, I cannot believe I wrote this, Modern AU, This is so sappy, im sorry, this is one thousand percent self-indulgence, this is what happens when i put up my christmas tree and get into the holiday spirit, you'll need the dentist after reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21716695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/not_so_weary_pilgrim
Summary: Cara stares at him. “I’m sorry. You can’t come over to watch the game at my place because you’re doing what?”Dyn very carefully keeps his eyes on the paperwork in front of him. “Because I’m taking the kid shopping for Christmas stuff.”“Christmas stuff,” she echoes. “Like…a tree? A plate for Santa’s cookies?”He frowns, distracted from his goal of avoiding eye contact. “They make special plates for that?”“Dude.” Cara’s mouth hangs open. “You’re buying a tree? And, like, are gonna decorate it with ornaments and lights and – ““Yes,” he snaps. “I’m sure you’re happy my years of being the resident grinch have finally come to an end.”“Oh, I’m not happy,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a horrifying grin. “I’m ecstatic. Forget the game, I’m coming with you guys.”orThe Modern-AU/Christmas fic that absolutely nobody asked for.
Relationships: The Mandalorian & Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Winta (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV/Omera (Star Wars)
Series: maybe the real bounty was the family we found along the way [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580236
Comments: 128
Kudos: 904





	1. Chapter 1

Look.

He doesn’t hate Christmas. He _doesn’t_.

But it’s been just him, in his shoebox apartment for the past fifteen years. Why would he get a tree when he works fifty hours a week?

“Because it’s the thing to do, Dyn,” Cara has explained on multiple occasions, like he’s some barbarian for not buying a pre-lit six footer from Big Lots. “You said Christmas was the holiday you celebrated growing up. Why would you _stop_ celebrating it now that you _are_ grown up?”

“I still celebrate it,” he protests every time. “I get you a present every year.”

That’s never appeased her; he knows his partner well enough to deduce that much from her eye rolls.

Still, just because he doesn’t decorate doesn’t make him a Scrooge. He attends the precinct holiday parties, purchases the present for whoever he draws out of the hat for Dirty Santa, and even exchanges pecks on the cheek with anyone unlucky enough to get caught with him under the mistletoe. He knows all Twelve Days of Christmas and their respective presents, in correct order – a fact which stunned the entire department at their last holiday party during the trivia portion.

Dyn likes Christmas fine. It’s just not something he…gets into. It’s a fun time of year, more parties and drinking (he loves spiked eggnog, he will admit that much), and he’s not going to begrudge anyone time with their families away from work. But when the morning of the twenty-sixth comes, he’s always moved on just fine. No nostalgia, no keeping the lights up for just one more day. Christmas is nice, but now it’s over. Simple as that.

This year, though, he finds himself looking down at his neighbor’s little girl from a ladder on her front porch, with something like panic stirring in his stomach.

Moving to a new house in the suburbs is only one of the millions of ways his life has been topsy-turvy in the past eight months. Near the top of that list was buying a four-door sedan in addition to his bike, searching for YouTube videos on changing diapers and swaddling, and spending almost half a paycheck on child-proofing gear. He wonders if his past self would laugh or quit his job if he’d known.

Finding a kid on a call in for domestic violence wasn’t exactly unheard of. Dyn has even been known to help look after little ones in similar situations, fetching coloring books or stuffed animals or making trips to McDonalds while they’re waiting for child services to get to the precinct. But he was the first one to hear the crying in the run-down apartment, the first one to the crib, the first one those big, frightened brown eyes saw and the first one the chubby little hands reached for.

He’d plucked the kid out of his crib, and the little head had nuzzled right into the crook of his neck, right where the Kevlar left a gap. It had proven impossible to pry him off – all attempts had resulted in screaming. So Dyn found himself feeding the little guy his bottle and awkwardly rocking him to sleep with coaching from some of his more experienced coworkers while Cara laughed from their desk.

Then the child services worker showed up, and for some reason Dyn hadn’t wanted to hand the kid over. There was no logic in it; this was a person who was obviously trained and qualified and trustworthy with children. But just the thought of letting go of him, watching him be carried out that door and never seeing him again made Dyn feel sick to his stomach.

So he’d looked the social worker right in the eye and said, “What are my chances they’ll let me adopt him?”

The entire precinct had gone silent. Cara’s boots slid right off the desk in shock; his captain had been the first to speak up.

“Jarren, are you sure about this? Don’t go making an emotional decision just because of the circumstances.”

Dyn had only tightened his jaw. “He doesn’t want me putting him down, Karga. So I’m not going to.”

The statement actually brought tears to more than one eye, to his immense mortification. He hadn’t been trying to sound like a Hallmark card. But he’d spoken the truth – this kid trusted a perfect stranger more than his own parents, enough to where Dyn’s shoulder was apparently the best place he’d had to lay his little head in quite a while. Dyn knew what it felt like to have that security ripped away. He wasn’t about to force a kid through that.

The social worker had gotten over her initial shock quickly, and smiled kindly at him. “It might take some negotiating, with your job. But we’ll see what we can do.”

That was earlier in the spring. Now it’s late autumn, and he’s living in the suburbs and driving a car that he bought mainly because of its high safety ratings and there’s a baby harness in the coat closet next to his leather jacket. It’s fine. He’s adjusted.

What he isn’t, apparently, is prepared.

Winta looks up at him, eyes widening. “Why do you look freaked out? All I did was ask you if your baby was excited for Christmas.”

“Uh-huh.” He forces his attention back to the porch light he’s fixing. “I know.”

“Well, that was kind of a simple question, why’d you go all deer-in-the-headlights about it?”

“Winta,” comes a gently scolding voice. “That’s not a polite way to talk to Mr. Jarren. Especially since he’s helping us.”

Ah yes. Yet another reason his life has turned unrecognizably domestic – his neighbor. Omera.

He knew it was bad when she came over with her daughter and a casserole on the day he moved in, welcoming him to the neighborhood and offering to watch his boy anytime he needed.

He knew it was _really_ bad when he’d returned the clean casserole dish to her two days later and she’d been surprised that he’d already eaten it all – to which he responded that it was delicious, and she’d smiled and blushed and he’d almost dropped said dish like an idiot.

And he knew it was _disastrous_ when the kid got a cold and she talked him through the worst of his panicking, soothing the little guy with lullabies and medicine and soothing him in turn with her calm know-how.

“Sorry,” Winta offers in her sweet way.

“It’s fine,” he tells her. “Hand me the flat-head screwdriver.”

While her daughter rummages in the toolbox, Omera looks up at him with an apologetic smile, bouncing his kid on her hip. “How’s it coming?”

“Good.” He looks up at the light fixture again, just to keep himself from falling off the ladder and into those eyes. “Almost done.”

A gurgling coo snaps his attention back down, and he can’t stop his mouth from curving upwards.

“Hey. You being good?”

Another gurgle. Omera beams. “He’s always good. You have the most contented baby in the world.”

Dyn thinks back to two days ago, when he spent thirty minutes calmly explaining over the kid’s deafening tantrum that no, cookies were not an option for breakfast. “Yeah.”

Winta hands him the requested screwdriver. “So, are ya?”

“Am I what?”

“Gonna put up a Christmas tree.”

Right. The reason he was almost hyperventilating five minutes ago.

“I…I guess so.” He tightens the screw almost too much. “I’ve never done one before.”

A long silence makes him look down again, only to find two horrified expressions gaping up at him. He shifts his weight awkwardly. “Didn’t make much sense when it was just me,” he offers, trying not to sound too defensive.

Omera snaps out of it first. “Of course. That’s understandable.”

Her daughter clearly disagrees, but decides not to vocalize it. He appreciates it; there’s only so much criticism a man can take from a nine year old and still walk away with his dignity.

“Well, you’re gonna have to do a really good one this year,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s his first Christmas.”

He’s all finished, which sucks because now he has to climb back down the ladder and face the reality that Christmas as a bachelor has in no way at all prepared him for Christmas as a single dad.

“Winta,” her mother says gently, “why don’t you take the baby inside and fix him a snack? There’s some graham crackers, and you can put on Sesame Street.”

Winta grins. “He loves Elmo.” She cuddles the baby close and disappears inside the house.

Dyn packs away his tools, makes sure the light works, and wonders if there’s a Christmas For Dummies book out there somewhere.

“Hey.” A small, warm brown hand curves around his upper arm; he jumps a little but Omera’s smile is the same as always – understanding and kind. “Don’t stress out about it. He’s so little, he won’t remember it anyway. Not this year.”

“Then…why does it matter?” He rakes one hand through his hair. It’s pointless to try and hide his insecurities from this woman. Besides, he’s found he doesn’t want to. It’s not like she’s ever judged him for them. “Isn’t Christmas, y’know…for kids? Mostly?”

“Mostly,” she agrees. “But the process of making it for them… _that_ part’s for us.”

He squints at her. She laughs. “You’ll see. How about we go with you to get some decorations next weekend? If you’re starting from scratch it can be kind of overwhelming. And Winta’s already talking about doing our place. Getting to help out with a whole other house will be like a present in and of itself.”

“What about you?” he finds himself asking. “Do you still like it?”

“I’ll have you know I make an excellent door wreath,” she says with a grin, which drops when his eyes widen.

He’s been focused on the tree this whole time. But – now that he thinks, everyone’s house he’s ever been to during the holidays has had a lot more than that. Banisters wrapped in garlands, wreathes and bows and those red flowers sitting on kitchen counters…

 _Boy_ , is he under-prepared.

“Don’t,” Omera says quickly. “Don’t panic, Dyn, it’s okay. It’s fine – “

“I don’t even have a – a…” he trails off, the list of what he doesn’t have for this obviously vital holiday terrifying him.

“It’s _fine_ ,” she insists. “It’s not even December yet, there’s plenty of time to get everything you want. Next weekend, we’ll go the stores on Saturday and spend Sunday putting it all up. Okay?”

He breathes a little easier, now that there’s a plan. “Okay.”

/

Cara stares at him. “I’m sorry. You can’t come over to watch the game at my place because you’re doing _what?_ ”

Dyn very carefully keeps his eyes on the paperwork in front of him. “Because I’m taking the kid shopping for Christmas stuff.”

“Christmas stuff,” she echoes. “Like…a tree? A plate for Santa’s cookies?”

He frowns, distracted from his goal of avoiding eye contact. “They make special plates for that?”

“Dude.” Cara’s mouth hangs open. “You’re buying a tree? And, like, are gonna decorate it with ornaments and lights and – “

“Yes,” he snaps. “I’m sure you’re happy my years of being the resident grinch have finally come to an end.”

“Oh, I’m not happy,” she says, leaning back in her chair with a horrifying grin. “I’m ecstatic. Forget the game, I’m coming with you guys.”

“What?”

It comes out much more startled than he meant to, and for a moment Cara’s happiness falters and he feels guilty. But then realization dawns on her face, and he decidedly does _not_ feel guilty, not even a little bit.

“Don’t tell me,” she drawls. “Your cute neighbor and her kid are going with you.”

Dyn does not grace that with a reply, which is all the answer she needs, really. She cackles, so loudly that Kuiil looks up from his desk next to theirs.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Dyn says sharply.

“He’s got a _date_ ,” Cara tells the entire precinct gleefully. “To go shopping for Christmas decorations.”

People actually start applauding.

“It’s not date,” he says, over and over again as his back gets slapped and a few of the married women even squeeze his hands, saying they’re so happy for him. He glares at his partner, who looks positively beside herself.

“It’s not a date,” he tells her firmly, and reminds himself to remember that.

/

Saturday morning dawns sunny and brisk; not so cold that walking from the car into the stores will be miserable, but cold enough that his coffee feels heavenly going down.

It’s not a date, so he very casually throws on the first clean sweater he finds and makes sure the jeans he pulls out of the dryer aren’t too wrinkled. The kid can tell something is up and jabbers happily as he gets stuffed into a long-sleeved onesie with a red-nosed reindeer on the behind. Winta brought the outfit over yesterday, solemnly explaining that wearing Christmas clothes while doing Christmas shopping a _tradition_. He’d accepted the tiny plastic hanger meekly, noting that it even has a hood with little felt antlers.

Winta and her mother are both extremely pleased to see the kid in his festive apparel; Dyn gives the red-and white striped get up a once over. It is pretty cute, he’ll admit. And his kid loves being the center of attention, so that means he’ll be in a good mood today. Small mercies, he thinks as he hefts the diaper bag into the trunk.

“Where’s yours?” Winta demands, fists on her hips.

“My what?”

“Your Christmas sweater,” she says in a _duh_ voice.

“I don’t have one.”

For a horrible moment he thinks she might cry. “I’ll get one,” he offers immediately. She nods, satisfied, and climbs into his backseat; Dyn gives Omera a wide-eyed look and she just smiles gently, and turns the Christmas music on for Winta to sing along to. It’s drastically different from his quiet rides to and from work – but it’s nice. The drive into town doesn’t seem to take nearly as long, and the kid is still giggling when Dyn straps him into the carrier on his chest.

“Mama made a list,” Winta informs him imperiously as they cross the parking lot. “And we’re gonna get the tree last, because that takes the most time to get right.”

“Okay,” he agrees mildly, getting a cart and turning to Omera expectantly. She grins and consults the list.

“First up – hardware for stuff on the porch.”

/

Five hours.

They’ve been at this for _five hours_.

The kid has taken his morning nap in the carrier, oblivious to the debate between using colored lights or white, flashing or non, LED or classic. He woke up somewhere in the middle of picking out giant buckets of monochromatic ornaments. Now they’re at McDonald’s for lunch, and few things make his kid happier than French fries.

Dyn feeds him pinched-off pieces of hamburger bun and tries not to stare at Omera when she licks some of the sauce for her chicken nuggets off her finger.

“Can I take him to go play?” Winta begs once both kids have eaten most of their meals.

“Sure,” he relents. “Don’t let him go down the slide by himself, he’ll fall.”

He watches his kid laugh and flail around in the ball pit, feeling something warm and steady in his chest slide into place.

“He’s a sweet boy,” Omera says. “You’re doing so well with him.”

Dyn snorts softly. “I feel most days like he should be taking care of me. I’ve never used Google or YouTube so much in my life.”

She laughs. “That’s normal parenting,” she assures him. “You really are a natural, especially for going at it alone. Did you always want to adopt?”

Dyn sips at the last of his Coke. “Never even considered it. But Cara and I got called in for a domestic violence case one night, and I heard him crying in the back. I went looking and the moment he saw me he reached those hands up and wouldn’t let me put him down.”

Omera’s eyes have gone impossibly soft; for once he doesn’t make himself look away. “Dyn…”

He swallows.

“He really loves you,” she says.

Dyn hasn’t really thought about that before. None of this has been about what’s in it for him. His focus has been on making sure the kid doesn’t experience the same disinterest Dyn knew after his parents died and he spent the rest of his childhood being shuffled through the foster system, unwanted and unloved. The idea that that little gremlin looks up at him – the socially awkward, inexperienced cop who’s never had a Christmas tree – with any sort of affection makes Dyn’s throat feel tight.

Omera smiles gently, reaching over to rest her hand on his. “It shouldn’t surprise you,” she says. “Children very loving creatures, as long as they’re shown how. And you’ve certainly done a wonderful job of that.”

Dyn wants to thank her, wants to tell her that he doesn’t know if he’d remember which way is up most days if he hadn’t had the luck to move in next to someone as kind and considerate and selfless as she is. But all his attention is focused on the feeling of her soft hand on his. Without really thinking about it, he turns his over and twists his fingers through hers.

Her breath catches; he’s positive he didn’t imagine the sound. He glances up at her and finds that distracting blush spreading across her cheeks again, her lips parting in surprise. But it’s her eyes that nearly do him in – they’ve gone dark and wide and he’s pretty sure he could drown in them if she’d let him.

“Mr. Jarren,” Winta suddenly appears, holding a fussing baby. “I think he needs his diaper changed.”

Dyn found his hand empty almost before he even realized that Winta was talking to him instead of her mother. He sets his kid in the crook of one arm and grabs the diaper bag with the other hand.

“I’ll change him, and then we can go get the tree.”

Omera nods, studying the few fries left on her tray with an intensity that tells him she’s not embarrassed. It makes him feel a little better about losing that moment so suddenly.

He gets his kid cleaned up, and drives them all to the tree lot – where he is promptly informed that this is the most sacred of all Christmas traditions, and will be expected to involve the kid in this part of the holidays for years to come.

No pressure or anything.

“So…we just pick one?”

Omera winces, and laughs a little at Winta’s incredulous stare. “Mr. Jarren, you can’t just pick one. You have to pick the _perfect_ one.”

“Okay,” he says, because he doesn’t understand what she’s trying to tell him but if he’s learned anything today, it’s not to argue with Winta about Christmas.

She coaches him through the experience of picking out a Christmas tree – apparently it’s about color and fullness and height, but it’s also about the tree’s aura. Whatever that is.

“How about you pick the one you think he’ll like best,” he finally says.

This is obviously the perfect thing to say; Winta beams and darts off among the trees. Omera laughs.

“You may regret that later.”

“I doubt it. I have no idea how I’m supposed to gauge the feeling a tree gives me.”

She laughs again; he ducks his head to hide how pleased the sight makes him feel, to know he could bring that sound into existence.

“So we’ve got the tree and all the trimmings,” he says, trying to remember her list. “Anything else?”

She hums thoughtfully. “Well, you’ve got all the necessary components. Now it’s just about the stuff you want, to make it yours.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, knick-knacks and things you can find in stores, when you’re not really looking.” She shrugs. “I always get a cinnamon candle. Smells like my grandmother’s house when I was a kid. Things like that.”

He has few childhood memories to go off – bells hung from the front doorknob, cookie recipes he thinks he has in a box somewhere – but more recently he’s spent several pleasant evenings in the homes of his coworkers and remembers one particular tradition that he wouldn’t mind trying.

“What about mistletoe?” he asks evenly.

She stiffens, but that wide-eyed look of pleasant surprise is back, along with the pink staining her cheeks.

“Is that – “ she trails off.

“Been to some parties that had it,” he offers casually, just in case he’s stepping over the line. “Wasn’t bad. Everyone knew it was just for fun, not a hard rule.”

She gets his underlying meaning, evidenced by the way the surprise melts off her face but all the pleasure stays put.

“Well then,” she says, walking over to a side display of little green sprigs tied with red ribbon. “I’ve always been a firm believer in indulging oneself, especially at Christmas.”

She hands him the mistletoe, and honestly the squirming kid strapped to his chest is the only reason he doesn’t kiss her then and there.

“I found it!” Winta appears, with her usual excellent timing, and grabs their hands to drag them through the piney fresh maze. “It’s _perfect_ , Mr. Jarren, wait till you see it – “

He shells out more money than can be considered reasonable for a tree, but he’s got a small fortune in the trunk of his car already so what’s a little more, really?

It isn’t until much later, driving home with a huge tree strapped to the top of his family-friendly car and listening to Winta belting out Christmas carols while his kid laughs happily, that Dyn lets his mind drift to the little paper sack tucked in the trunk amongst the ornaments and boxes of lights, with its bundle of green leaves and red ribbon.

He sneaks a glance over to the passenger seat, and catches her looking at him with that soft look in her eyes again.

He clears his throat and drags his attention back to the road.

/

Sunday, as promised, is spent putting all of the ridiculous things he bought the day before to use. The kid is on cloud nine, giggling at Omera and Winta as they wind ribbons and pin up garlands and show him how to cram so many lights onto the tree that it’s probably a fire hazard.

He bought a Christmas sweater yesterday, too – one with a big Santa face knitted into the front. It’s something he prays Cara never sees him wearing, but the way Omera’s eyes lit up when he answered the door is well worth any future teasing.

“See?” Winta hooks an ornament carefully onto her chosen branch. “Just pick one that isn’t droopy, otherwise it won’t support the weight.”

Dyn peers carefully over her shoulder, holding her level with his chest so she can reach. “Uh-huh.” He sets her down and sees Omera bringing in a tray that holds three mugs of hot chocolate, and a tiny bowl of mini marshmallows.

Later, after the boxes and packaging have been taken out for trash day and the last bow is tied, Dyn sits on his couch and looks around. Winta has his kid snuggled on her lap, curled up in the big easy chair that usually his spot. He put in a movie for them earlier, and now they’ve crashed from all the sugar. His chest feels funny, looking at them like this, especially after day spent in such untarnished joy.

Seeing his kid coo and point excitedly at the lights has reshaped his feelings for the holiday. Omera was right, as usual.

Speaking of…

He can hear her, in the kitchen. He pauses to throw a blanket over the kids, and slowly pads down the hallway.

She’s washing their hot chocolate mugs, and the sight of her in sock feet and smiling over her shoulder at him makes Dyn feel light-headed.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

She tuts softly. “I don’t mind.”

“You’ve done enough today,” he protests, crossing the room to start drying. “You haven’t even touched your own house yet.”

“Next weekend,” she says with a smile. “Winta already has it all planned out.”

“I bet,” he grins. “We’ll come help. Least we can do.”

“Good,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that makes his hands pause with the dishtowel. He glances over at her. “I need someone tall to help with some of it.”

“Sure,” he agrees, wondering what he’s missing.

She comes a step closer, uses the towel he’s holding to dry her hands. “Tree topper and stuff like that.”

He swallows, audibly. “Hard for either of you to reach.”

“And…this.”

She reaches behind her; his heart slams hard and heavy against his ribcage when she twirls the little wad of mistletoe between her fingers. Her eyes flicker up to meet his, but not without lingering on his lips first.

This is where he should say something witty and flirtatious. But his mouth has gone dry as sand, so instead he puts the towel down, gently takes the mistletoe from her hand, and holds it between them, overhead.

He’s rewarded with a smile so bright it makes his knees shake. And then she reaches up, and holds onto his chest so she can lift up on her toes.

She tastes like chocolate and he is lost the very instant their mouths touch. He drops the mistletoe back on the counter, so he can wrap both arms around her waist and haul her closer. She in turn locks her arms around his neck, running her hands through his hair and generally making it extremely difficult for him to retain his sanity.

At some point he pivots and pushes her up against the counter, and then lifts her to sit on it so he can stand in the v between her legs. She sighs happily into him and pulls him even more against her.

“I really like this sweater,” she says breathlessly as he works his way down her neck.

“Cool,” he says, not to be distracted from the smooth brown curves of her collarbone. _I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you_ , he wants to add. But it’s too soon.

So instead he moves up to kiss her again, deep and soft and savoring the way she melts right there in his arms.

“Kids – “

“Asleep,” he mutters.

“Thank – “ Omera sighs the rest of it into his mouth, scratching her fingernails through his beard.

He’s just about to brush his hands up the back of her own Christmas sweater when a wail echoes down the hall from the living room.

Breathing hard, he lets his head drop onto her shoulder for just a moment. She runs her fingers through his hair again, down his neck and shoulders. He nearly collapses at how soothing it is.

“It’s very late,” she says. “I’d better get us home.”

“All right,” he agrees, though he doesn’t want to. He straightens up and almost kisses her again when he sees how good she looks like this, well-kissed and disheveled. Her eyes are softer than ever, and there’s a pleased smile teasing at the corners of her swollen mouth. He wonders if she likes the same look on him.

“Thank you for all your help,” he tells her, hoping she understands he’s not talking about the lesson in hanging ornaments.

She smiles at him again, warm and radiant. “Merry Christmas, Dyn.”

He lets his forehead press against hers. “Merry Christmas.”

/


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was SUPPOSED to be a one-shot. And then you lovely, kind, wonderful freaks left me with a bunch of comments that redefined happiness for me and so here we are, in Chapter 2 of ? and with SEQUEL FICS PLANNED FOR FUTURE HOLIDAYS, WHAT EVEN Y'ALL WHAT HAVE YOU DONE.
> 
> Please read the note at the end, that one's got some important info in it and isn't just me spewing out fond exasperation on you all for being such lovely people.

“Winta, you didn’t even knock – “

Her rebuke falls on deaf ears. Or, rather, no ears at all, because Winta is already pelting down the hallway to the kitchen. Omera sighs, thankful that at worst it was a missed opportunity to practice manners; it’s not like Dyn minds. She can hear his quiet, deep voice greeting her daughter over his son’s excited squeals. The sound makes her smile as she puts hers and Winta’s boots neatly beside the door.

The house still looks great; Dyn has done an admirable job of keeping little hands away from the tree in the two weeks since their decorating weekend and all of Winta’s artistic flair is still evident in the decorations.

(The mistletoe hung in the doorway is more Omera’s touch. But she’s pretty sure Dyn doesn’t mind that either. Quite the opposite, in fact.)

The sight that greets her in the kitchen makes her long for a camera. The baby is in his high chair, with an array of dry Cheerios and some of those little yogurt bites on the plastic tray in front of him. His attention is divided between the soggy Cheerio stuck to the back of his hand and Winta, who is showering him with her typical smiles and affection.

Cute as they are, Omera hardly spares them a glance before focusing entirely on Dyn.

It’s not as though she’s ever seen him look ugly. His attire usually consists of his uniform and jeans with worn t-shirts or sweatshirts – functional and comfortable seem to be his main criteria, and if Omera enjoys the sight of his _comfortable_ tees hugging his arms and torso when he comes over to do handyman jobs, well. Sue her.

But never in a hundred years would she have imagined him wearing an apron.

It really shouldn’t be that big of a deal; underneath it he’s wearing an old, navy blue police t-shirt and jeans. Standard Dyn Jarren get up. But the apron is dark green with a big cartoonish Rudolph on the front, Christmas lights wound through his antlers. The ties and neck strap are candy-cane striped.

“Cara gave it to me,” he says. Omera blushes, caught staring.

“Oh, I – “

“Said it was because she was proud of me for embracing the Christmas spirit.” Dyn’s voice has that particular edge to it that tells Omera he has rolled his eyes about the apron and its giver multiple times already. Still, he’s wearing it. Omera decides maybe she should get Cara a thank you present.

“I like it,” she offers.

Dyn looks up at her, one eyebrow quirking. “Yeah?”

“It’s cute.” Omera slowly steps up to the other side of the tiny kitchen island and traces one fingertip through some flour. “Women love a man in an apron.”

His expression smooths from amused to interested in a heartbeat; his eyes flick down to her mouth for just a moment and Omera grips the edge of the countertop just a little bit tighter.

“Do tell.”

Suppressing a shiver at the way his voice has gone even deeper than normal, she glances at the kids.

They haven’t been hiding per se. But they are being careful (especially around Winta) not to be too demonstrative until they’ve had some time for the newness to settle.

Though Omera doesn’t think any of this is newness. She’s had that before – like a lit match tossed onto a pile of firewood soaked with lighter fluid. One searing hot flash and then there’s not much left but ashes.

With Dyn, it feels more like a banked hearth-fire glowing red, just waiting to be stoked and coaxed to full strength from the coals. It feels like she’s sitting out in the sun – a steady, slow warmth that goes all the way down to her bones. She wants to bask in it, soak it in until it’s shining out of her every pore.

Omera supposes they should talk sometime soon. He hasn’t kissed her again since that night in his kitchen – literally five feet from where she’s standing, which is doing no favors for her ability to focus – but the want is clearly there. He isn’t hiding that from her either.

She has the distinct impression that he’s waiting for her to make the first move. Which would be disheartening, because she already did that with the mistletoe. But she’s pretty sure it’s only because her child is older; if she were to abruptly leave his life, his kid wouldn’t remember her in two weeks.

But Winta is nine, and thinks that Mr. Jarren across the street is nice and cool even if he was an uncultured heathen for never having had a Christmas tree. Naturally, Omera has watched him with her – for a man as quiet as he is, he’s never shown any annoyance over her daughter’s endless chatter. He indulges her questions, lets her all but smother his baby with hugs and kisses while still firmly setting boundaries on bedtimes and safety, and even when the baby is asleep and it’s the three of them, he doesn’t ignore her for Omera.

Those little things all add up, making him a person Omera trusts implicitly. She’s sure of this, sure that he’d sooner cut off his arm than ever bring her or Winta an ounce of pain or heartache. But she’s also sure that he’s new at all of this – belonging somewhere other than the army or police force. She keeps catching him looking surprised at the most mundane things, like when she took him that casserole when he moved in. It was as though he’d never had neighbors before.

So here they are, her feeling ready to settle down and raise their children together and him having no idea because less than a year ago he wasn’t anyone’s definition of a family man, much less his own, and he’s understandably assumed that she’ll need more time to trust him as much as she already does. He probably won’t even believe her when she tells him the depth of her certainty.

She’s _really_ looking forward to convincing him.

“Whatcha makin, Mr. Jarren?”

The smirk that’s hiding in one corner of Dyn’s mouth morphs into his usual kind smile. Winta clambers onto one of the counter stools and leans over to inspect the dark brown cookie dough taking shape under his rolling pin.

“Gingerbread cookies.” He sprinkles a little more flour and goes back to work. Omera tries very hard not to stare at his forearms.

“Oh, Mama, didn’t you want to find a good recipe for those? You said you’d make some for my class party.”

“I did,” Omera agrees. “Dyn, where’d you get this one? It smells fantastic.”

The rolling pin doesn’t pause in its rhythm but he doesn’t answer for a moment or two. “It was my mother’s.”

Startled, she looks up at him. His eyes are focused on his work, cookie cutter now putting smooth brown circles on the empty baking sheet. She clears her throat. “I…I didn’t know you had any – “

“Neither did I,” he shrugs. “Found ‘em in a box up in the attic. Bunch of old recipes from Chile, too. Must’ve learned them for my dad.”

“What’s Chile?”

“A country in South America. It’s where my father was from.” Dyn looks up now, not quite smiling but not looking unhappy either.

“Is it one of the countries that speaks Portuguese or Spanish?”

Omera smiles. At school they’re doing a unit on countries of the world and Winta had found the whole semester fascinating.

“Spanish,” Dyn answers as he puts the first pan of cookies into the oven.

“So you speak Spanish?” Winta asks excitedly.

Dyn very clearly has no idea where this is going. “I do, yes.”

“Can you teach me?”

He looks up again, wide-eyed. “I…sure. If you want.”

“I do.” Winta draw pictures in the flour on the countertop. “There’s a new boy in my class that doesn’t speak very much English and he doesn’t have any friends. If I learn a little Spanish we can talk.”

Omera fights the urge to cry. Dyn is staring at her daughter like he’s never seen her before. After a long pause he clears his throat.

“That…that’s very kind of you, Winta.”

Winta just shrugs. “Everybody needs a friend, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll help you. We can start over the school break. Okay?”

“Okay,” Winta says happily, oblivious to the fact that both adults are blinking and swallowing heavily. “Can I take the baby to go watch a movie?”

“Sure. He’s been getting a kick out of Mulan lately.” Dyn wipes the baby’s hands and face off, and removes the tray so Winta can set the baby on the floor. He gurgles happily and takes off at a fast crawl to the living room, Winta following close behind.

Omera watches him as he continues cutting out cookies. She wonders if she’ll ever get tired of seeing him like this – shoulders loose, flour in his hair and feet in worn black socks. Soft, content. Happy.

She sneaks a pinch of cookie dough. He sees but lets her.

“She’s a sweet kid.”

She smiles. “Yes.”

Dyn sets another full baking sheet to the side and rerolls the dough. “Must get it from her mom.”

Her smile widens. She moves to stand on his side of the counter. “I think you’re just flirting with me.”

One eyebrow quirks again. “Me?”

She giggles – when was the last time she did _that?_ – and sneaks another pinch of dough. One side of this mouth twitches.

“Careful,” he murmurs softly, turning just his head to look at her with those dark eyes. “You keep doing that and it’s gonna start costing you.”

“I think I can afford it,” she whispers back, and goes up on her toes just like she did the first night.

His mouth is exactly as she remembers, soft and warm and gentle. He hums lightly into her when she slides one hand up his neck and into his thick hair; he doesn’t reach for her with his floury hands but he doesn’t need to in order to have her exactly where he wants – with his mouth alone he backs her up into the island, his hands braced on the countertop on either side of her hips. His beard is exactly the right kind of scratchy, his tongue the best kind of heat.

“Now I really think you’re flirting with me,” she says into the hollow where his jaw meets neck.

She was expecting another verbal parry or maybe a chuckle. Instead she feels an unmistakable brush of his lips on her temple.

“Is that…okay?”

Omera tucks her smile into his shoulder before she pulls back to look at his face. Doubt has furrowed his brow, just a little, and she smooths it away with her thumbs.

“Yes” she tells him. “And it’s even okay when the kids aren’t occupied down the hall.”

That surprises him; his eyes widen and his mouth opens a little.

“I…” he shakes his head in wonder. “I figured you’d want to wait – “

“I know.”

“ – it’s not that I don’t – are you sure?”

By way of answer she leans up and kisses him again, strong and sturdy. Something rumbles deep in his chest and Omera feels heat coil tight in her belly.

“Very sure,” she says once they can both breathe again. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything though, so if you aren’t ready – “

“I’m good.” He nods, mussed hair flopping a little over his forehead and between that and the apron and the fact that she’s never seen him smile this big before (he has _dimples_ , as if it weren’t unfair enough already), her heart squeezes almost painfully. “I’m…I’m good. Don’t plan on going anywhere if you’re okay with me staying.”

“Good.” She links her fingers behind his neck and goes in for another kiss, but the oven timer goes off and he sighs.

“Sorry. One second.”

He trades out the done cookies for a fresh batch, and kisses her again, just once but deep and soft, before going back to the dough left forgotten on the counter. She lets herself stare openly at his forearms this time.

“I didn’t know you were a baker.”

He smiles a little. “My mom could make dirt taste like a five star meal. Found that big box of her recipes, managed to find this one. It was my favorite as a kid.”

Omera looks over at the sheet of notebook paper filled with faded, elegant handwriting. “She didn’t use recipe cards?”

He snorts. “She wasn’t the most organized person. Especially in the kitchen. None of her recipes are in any kind of order, it took me almost an hour to find this one. But I found a couple of others I want to try while I’m at it.”

Omera sees more pages set off to the side, even spots the box over on one of the kitchen chairs. She hums thoughtfully, processing this new information as she picks up one of the now cooled gingerbread cookies.

At the first bite, her eyes go wide.

Holy –

“Dyn,” she croaks around a full mouth.

He looks up sharply, frowning.

“What? Does it taste bad? Don’t – here, spit it out, you’ll get food poisoning – ”

She shakes her head; he tries to take it from her, like it’s offended her but she pulls away.

“This is,” she says quietly, “the _best_ cookie I have _ever_ had in my mouth.”

He relaxes so profoundly that he actually sighs with it. She takes another bite and moans. He smirks again.

“That good, huh?”

By way of answer she offers him a bite. He hums as he chews.

“Hm. Not bad.”

“Not bad?” She shoves the rest of it into her mouth and licks her fingers for crumbs. “I’m going to sign you up for the Holiday Baking Championship.”

“The what?”

/

Later that night, Omera is brushing Winta’s hair before bed when she decides to bring up the subject that’s been occupying most her headspace all day.

“Sweetheart, do you…do you like Mr. Jarren?”

“Yeah,” Winta doesn’t hesitate. “He’s nice. I like teaching him about Christmas. It makes me sad he’s never had someone to do that before.”

Her heart squeezes; she hopes – really hopes – that her girl never loses this innate sense of kindness and compassion.

“I know he’s enjoyed it too, honey. I’m really proud of you for wanting to help him have a nice holiday.”

“He’s nice,” Winta says again. “But he looks at you kind of weird.”

The brush pauses. “Weird how?”

“I dunno. Like he’s happy and scared at the same time.”

Omera fights the wild urge to laugh. That just about sums up Dyn’s whole state of being lately.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She waits for her daughter to turn and face her. “Mr. Jarren…Dyn, and I, would like to start dating.”

“What’s dating?”

“It’s when you spend a lot of time with someone, to get to know them better. Sometimes you might leave the house and go somewhere fancy, or sometimes you might watch a movie on the couch.”

Winta’s little brow is furrowed in thought. “Sounds a lot like what you guys have been doing already.”

“Some,” Omera agrees. “But it’s a little different once you both decide that it’s going to be dates and not just spending time together as friends.”

“You aren’t going to be friends anymore?”

“Yes, but just a little bit extra too.”

“How come?”

“Because…we like each other.”

“If he likes you so much, how come he looks at you weird?”

She swallows a laugh. “I think it’s because before he had his baby, he was alone for a very long time. He’s still getting used to how wonderful having a family can be, and sometimes when a feeling is very new it can be a little scary. It’s not a bad thing, he just needs a little time to get used to it.”

Winta wrinkles her nose. “Are you going to kiss him?”

Omera does laugh, this time. “I hope so. Is that okay with you?”

“I guess, but that’s kind of gross.”

“That’s okay,” Omera says, still laughing a little. “I thought it was gross when I was your age too.”

Winta’s expression clearly says that she thinks her mother is weird for changing that particular stance, but then more questions distract her from cooties.

“So you and Mr. Jarren are gonna start dating?”

“Yes, and that means that sometimes we’ll spend time with each other and you and the baby won’t be there. It doesn’t mean we don’t care about you two anymore. It just means that we need time with just each other every now and then. Okay?”

“Okay,” Winta agrees. “Does this mean he’s your boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Omera says automatically, though she’ll have to check with Dyn just to make sure. She highly doubts he’ll mind. “But…well, some day he might be more than that too.”

“Like what?”

Omera takes a deep breath. “A lot of times, when people start dating, it’s because they think they’d like to get married but need to be sure first. Not always,” she add firmly, “but sometimes. So if that happens, would you be okay with that too? If I married Dyn?”

Winta doesn’t say anything for a long time, just long enough for Omera to start worrying.

“That means he’ll be my dad.” She looks up into Omera’s face. “Right?”

“He would do everything a dad is supposed to do, like he does now for his baby. He would take care of you, and help you, and protect you, and make sure you have everything you need to be safe and happy.” Omera smooths her daughter’s hair. “But you wouldn’t have to call him dad if you didn’t want to.”

To her disappointment, tears fill Winta’s eyes. “But…but I want to. I want to _now_.”

Her sinking heart rocket back upwards so rapidly it makes Omera lightheaded; she pulls Winta into her lap.

“Honey, you can call him dad now if you want to.”

Winta shakes her head, now crying in earnest. “But you just said he’s still getting used to having a family. What if it scares him even more? I don’t want him to be scared of me.”

Omera thinks she might cry too. “You need to ask him if it’s okay.”

“But what if he isn’t and he says yes anyway? He’s really nice. He’d do that, if he thought it was something I wanted. Wouldn’t he?”

Yes, Omera admits to herself. He would. With no hesitation. And he would get used to it in time, but until that happened he would likely be startled and jumpy every time Winta addressed him, and Winta would notice and be devastated to think that it bothered or annoyed him.

She sighs.

“Then, you need to tell him that you want to call him dad, but only if he’s ready. If he knows that this is how you feel, honey, it’ll make the whole thing a lot less scary to him.”

“You think he’ll promise to tell me when he’s ready?”

For Winta, Omera suspects Dyn Jarren would promise a way to get the moon in the palm of his hand.

“I know he will, honey. All you have to do is talk to him.”

Winta sniffles. “Okay. I’m glad you’re dating him. He’s nice.”

“He is, he’s very nice. And I’m glad that you’re glad.”

A beat.

“How come kissing isn’t gross to you anymore?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pedro Pascal is Chilean, so I'm HC-ing him here with a dad who immigrated straight from Chili and a mom who grew up in America. Her ethnicity or cultural background is entirely up to you, I just needed a reason why Dyn would celebrate the "Americanized" version of holidays like he's going to and it seemed a little unlikely to me if both of his parents were immigrants. I will be drawing on Chilean culture and holidays in future chapters and fics, so if you have any insight or resources on that please feel free to share.
> 
> Julia Jones, the actress who plays Omera, is of English, African-American, Choctaw, and Chicksaw descent. I will also be pulling from these cultures as well in future fics, and the same request goes here too. I'm a white girl from Tennessee, and I want to be both accurate and respectful in how I portray these cultures. Constructive criticism is both desired and greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally the cheesiest thing I have ever written. My laptop needed a dentist appointment by the time I was done. But it's YOUR FAULT, for being so NICE and SUPPORTIVE and MAKING ME CRY WITH HAPPINESS with your comments and some of you even drew ART FOR THIS WHAT EVEN. 
> 
> So, this is exceedingly sappy but you know what? You have no one to blame but yourselves.

On the morning of December twenty-third, Dyn is on patrol with Cara. It’s bitterly cold, the bright fresh snow on rooftops and in people’s yards at odds with the days-old sludge in the roads. They stop for coffee, and he’s not even halfway through his cup when Cara’s had enough.

“All right. Spill.”

They’re currently pulled over, in hopes of catching some speeders. So he’s free to look over at her in his passenger seat.

“What are you talking about?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play games with me, Jarren. Something’s been eating you for the past couple of weeks. Is the kid okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what is it?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Truth be told, he would welcome the chance to vent – he’s tried to figure this out on his own and it’s got him going in circles. But this is a far more… _emotional_ discussion than he friendship with Cara usually involves. Usually she can just guess what’s bugging him and mocks him until he gets over it. He’s at least self-aware enough to know that that’s not the right course here.

“Hey.” Cara punches him lightly on the arm. “Relax. I’m not gonna laugh at you. At least, not until you feel better about whatever it is.”

He sighs. “Winta wants to call me dad.”

It’s still not really sunk in, despite the fact that it’s been almost two weeks since that little girl waltzed into his kitchen, looked up into his face, and very sweetly informed him that she was very happy he was going to be dating her mom, and that whenever he was ready she would really like to call him her dad. But, he was sternly warned, he had to promise not to let her until _he_ was ready.

And then she’d given him a hug around his middle, and scampered back out the door to play outside with his kid.

When he pulls himself back to the present and looks back at the passenger seat, Cara appears stunned.

“Wow,” she finally says quietly. “That’s…that’s – wow.”

Dyn snorts. “You’re telling me. I almost dropped my own kid.”

“So – what does that mean for you and Omera?”

“Well, that’s apparently what triggered the whole dad thing. Omera told her we were gonna start dating, and then Winta wants to know if that means I’ll be her dad.”

“That’s understandable,” Cara admits.

“Yeah,” Dyn nods. “I just wasn’t expecting her to…to _want_ it. Omera doesn’t talk about her ex. But I know he’s not in the picture, so I guess Winta doesn’t have anybody like that in her life. But…”

“You want to know why she’d pick you, of all people.”

He sighs again, almost overwhelmingly relieved that Cara’s guess the root issue. He’s surprised again when his partner puts her coffee down and twists in her seat to face him, open and honest.

“Dyn, I know I constantly make fun of you for how soft you’ve gone since you adopted your kid. But the truth is, if I thought you were being anything less than a good dad I’d be a lot more in your face about it, and not in a friendly way.”

He knows this. It’s why she’s what he guesses he could call his best friend.

“But…dude, do you not see how that kid lights up whenever he sees you? You’re his favorite person on the planet. And it’s not because you spoil him; I’ve been on the receiving end of too many lectures on the importance of bedtimes to know that. You just…you just love him. And that’s what he wants the most. Is it really any surprise that Winta would want that too, when there’s never been a man in her life willing to do it before?”

Dyn stares down into his coffee, trying to swallow.

“What if I mess up?”

“Then congratulations, you’re human.” Cara sighs. “Look, are you gonna be one of those creepy stepdads? Like the one we arrested last week?”

 _That_ brings his head up, fierce scowl all the answer she needs.

“Okay. You ever gonna hit her?”

“No.” The very thought makes him want to throw up.

“You gonna tell her she can’t date until she’s forty? Pitch a fit when she buys her first mini skirt? When you catch her kissing her date on the front porch? Pitch a fit when she hits her thirties and she has no desire for marriage or kids of her own?”

“No.”

“You gonna save up for her go to college? Teach her how to defend herself? Help her with her math homework? Let her pick her future career and support her in it?”

Dyn has a sudden vision, of an older Winta in a cap and gown, diploma in hand. Of her in a sports jersey scoring a winning goal. Of her in a white dress walking down the aisle. Of watching out the living room window to see her pulling in the driveway after a semester away at school.

He wants to be there, he realizes. He really, _really_ wants to be there for all of it. The excitement he feels for whatever Winta’s future holds isn’t quite enough to drown out his fear over ruining that future for her. But it’s enough to bring the roar down to a tolerable volume, one he can at least ignore for the time being.

“I…yeah. I’d like to do all of that. If that’s what she wants.”

Cara smiles, for once with no trace of teasing. “Then I think you’ll do fine. Besides, you think Omera would have even allowed that conversation if you had tripped any of her red flags?”

No, he can admit that much to himself. Omera’s a great mom, and a smart woman.

He stares out the windshield for another minute or two while he nurses his coffee. Then he takes a deep breath, mind whirling with an errand he now has to run, as soon as he gets off work.

“Okay.”

Cara peers at him carefully. “You good?”

He nods. “Yeah. Thanks. You…you helped. A lot.”

Her gentle smile turns into a wicked smirk so fast it gives him whiplash. “So, you and Omera are dating, huh?”

He huffs. “I take it back. You’re a horrible friend.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just ask your _girlfriend_ next time I see her.”

“What are you, eight?”

She picks up her coffee, using a sing-song voice, “Dyn and Omera sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S – “

_“Would you shut up?”_

/

Later that evening, after work and a shower, Dyn takes the kid over the Omera’s house and meets her babysitter. Some middle-aged lady that’s the aunt of one of Omera’s coworkers, or something. The woman seems responsible and both kids like her fine, so he’s satisfied. He’s handing over the diaper bag and telling her the bedtime routine when movement out of his periphery distracts him.

He looks over, and the words dry up right there in his mouth.

She’s wearing a dark green dress, one of those things that looks like the body underneath it has been giftwrapped. It drapes elegantly over her shoulders and torso like it was made for her; her hair is swept up and – he swallows thickly. She’s wearing red lipstick.

Merry Christmas indeed.

“Is that everything, as far as bedtime goes?”

He blinks, and stares down at the babysitter. She’s smirking a little bit, and he feels the tips of his ears heat up. “Um. Yeah, that should be it. Hey,” he adds, poking the kid in his soft belly. “You be good, okay?”

He gets a happy gurgle in response, and waits by the door while Omera says good-bye to Winta and gives her own last-minute instructions to the babysitter.

“Thank you so much, Peli, we won’t be out too late. There’s a casserole in the fridge, please help yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peli waves them off, eyes only for the kids. “You two have fun. We’ll be just fine, won’t we?”

Dyn somehow has the presence of mind to offer her his arm since the sidewalk is slick with ice and snow, and he even opens the door for her. But as soon as he’s in the car himself he just can’t take it anymore.

“Peli has always been Winta’s favorite sitter,” Omera is saying as she fastens her seatbelt. “Mine, too, if I’m being – “

He tries to be careful not to mess up her hair; his hand cups her jaw and he kisses her hard and wet and deep while the gear shift digs into his hip. She’s caught off guard, he can tell, but she catches up quickly enough and scratches her short nails through his beard in that particular way that drives him wild.

“Sorry,” he rasps at last. “You…uh. You look beautiful. Really beautiful.”

She’s panting, looking dazed and happy and flushed. He pulls back to his side, clenches one hand on the steering wheel and reminds himself that the kids could probably see them out the window if they cared to look, and they’ll be late to the party if they don’t leave now.

“Oh.” She clears her throat and smooths her skirt, looking so shyly pleased that he curses every day before this that he hasn’t complimented her, if it makes her look like that. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He buckles his own seatbelt, suddenly thinking of something. “Sorry I messed up your lipstick.”

“That’s okay,” she assures him, snapping open a tiny black back he didn’t notice now and pulling out a little mirror and a tube of lipstick. “I came prepared.”

Something about that, the thought of her going through the routine of getting dressed and doing her makeup and hair for tonight, and thinking of him while doing it – it makes him go soft and boneless; rather than stoking the fire further it brings the heat down to a simmer, low in his belly. Definitely there, not to be ignored, but the longer it lasts the better it feels.

He reaches up and lets the backs of his fingers dust her cheek, down onto her neck. She blushes in the dim porch light, and he at last puts the car in gear, and backs out into the road.

The first few minutes of their commute are heavy with silence while they both get their heartrates back under control. When he feels he can speak normally again, he clears his throat.

“Thanks for agreeing to this, by the way.” They’re stopped at a red light. He glances over, not wanting to be creepy in the slightest but fascinated by the sight of her putting on that red lipstick. “Everyone’s gonna be insufferable, just so you know. They’ve been trying to get me to bring a date for years.”

“I bet,” she laughs, putting her makeup away, oblivious to his admiration as she hands him a tissue to clean his own mouth of red smears. “So tonight’s going to be one round of twenty questions after another?”

“I wish I could say no, but…” he grimaces. “If it gets to be too much, just say the word and we’ll leave. No worries, okay?”

“Okay.”

By the time they arrive at the event center, Dyn can tell they’re some of the last to arrive. They park, she clutches his arm again since the parking lot is icy too and he pretends he’s doing her a favor while really what he wants to do is pick her up and carry her in like some caveman, and then he helps her with her coat once they get inside.

She turns around, smoothing her dress and beaming up at him with her soft, dark eyes.

He is _gone_.

“Ready?”

By way of answer, he settles one hand on the small of her back. She relaxes into his touch, letting the curve of his arm cradle her against his side. He breathes easily even as they head into the main room and every eye turns to them.

Let them stare. He certainly would like to.

Cara, the gem that she is, snatches them away from the spotlight almost immediately. She’s at the bar, which means they can order their drinks and the girls can catch up and all the while Dyn regrets driving, because more than anything he wishes he could pretend that it’s the alcohol making him flushed and not the way Omera keeps pressing up against him more than is strictly necessary.

He knows what she’s doing. She’s playing up the charm, acting as smitten with him as possible so people leave him alone about his relationship status from now on. He appreciates it, really.

Only…Dyn’s only a loose sixty-three percent sure it _is_ an act. And that small window of uncertainty is making him wish they’d just gone to dinner by themselves if only so he’d have an excuse to stare across a table at her all evening.

She perches on a bar stool, chatting happily with Cara, and he just about drops his glass of punch when he feels something stroke, just barely, on the inside of his calf, sweeping up to just below his knee before disappearing.

Stood next to her seat, leaning back against the bar, he turns his head to look incredulously at her. He gets one elegant eyebrow arched upwards in response.

“Isn’t that right, Dyn? I was just telling Cara that you’re a phenomenal baker and have been keeping your talent all to yourself for years.” She turns back to Cara as if she just didn’t send his blood pressure through the roof. “You should try his gingerbread cookies. They’re an out-of-body experience.”

And now he’s thinking about the way she bit into the dark, spiced dough, how she looked standing in his kitchen in the late afternoon sunlight, how she moaned deep in her throat around a mouthful –

“Would you like to dance?”

He interrupts Cara, quite rudely truth be told, but judging from the astonished grin his partner is wearing as she watches Omera’s response, she doesn’t mind.

Omera blinks, and smiles shyly. “Yes, please.”

He takes her warm, soft hand and puts his other one on her waist, tugging her closer than is necessary.

“What are you doing?”

Omera’s smirk is a dangerous thing, sending heat creeping up his neck and into his face. He’s always blushed easily; everyone here probably thinks she’s whispering dirty things to him here on the dance floor with the snowflakes and ornaments hanging from the ceiling tiles.

“Well, I deduced from your total lack of enthusiasm and from your partner that you don’t exactly look forward to this party every year. I’m just trying to make sure you have a good time.”

Dyn rolls his eyes. “You’re making sure I have a very _interesting_ time.”

Her smirk softens into that kind smile he knows so well. “Is it too much? You can always say if you mind.”

He pulls her a little closer, rests their joined hands on his chest, and presses his forehead against hers. “I don’t mind at all. Even if it’s the least relaxing Christmas party I’ve ever been to.”

She laughs, bright and golden. And he thinks that if this is what Christmas can be like, he’s really been missing out.

/

They get back home late, pay Peli, and once she leaves they enjoy a few – read: almost forty-five – uninterrupted minutes in her living room with him sitting on the couch and her perched on his lap, dark green velvet rucked up her thighs.

In the end, it’s not a good night for a first sleepover. They’re both tired – holiday preparations on top of the fact that he’s been pulling long, hard shifts so he could be off the next two days – and while she’s not exactly tipsy they reach an unspoken agreement to both be stone-cold sober when that moment finally happens.

So he carries his kid back home, glad the little rascal is sound asleep so he doesn’t see Dyn’s face and jaw smeared all over with red lipstick. He puts the kid to bed, takes a cold shower and falls asleep the instant his head hits the pillow.

The next day is Christmas Eve. He has some last minute gift wrapping to do – the one aspect of the holidays that he can’t master, no matter how hard he tries. He gets Omera’s taken care of on his own, but then she comes over with Winta and leaves him in the kitchen with the kids while she disappears upstairs and gets all their collective presents ready to go under the tree.

He’s making another batch of gingerbread while the baby jabbers at him from his highchair and Winta jabbers right back at him. Eventually, though, Winta comes over to stand at Dyn’s elbow.

“Do you need help?”

“Sure. But you gotta put an apron on, I’m pretty those are some of your school clothes.”

She frowns. “But I don’t have an apron. Yours is too big.”

“Good thing I got you one, then, huh?”

“You got me an apron?”

“Yep. It’s over there.”

She’s already smiling, which is a good thing. But it fades a little when she picks the apron up, squinting at it in confusion.

“Mr. Jarren? There’s a word on it, what does it mean?”

Dyn takes a deep breath, wipes his hands clean and goes over to drop onto one knee in front of her.

“You remember how you asked me to teach you some Spanish? So you can talk to that boy in your class?”

“Yes.” Her expression brightens. “So this is the Spanish word for apron? That’s so cool!”

“No,” he chuckles. “No, this word is pronounced _mijita_.”

“What’s it mean?” She pulls the apron on over her head and looks, upside down, at the vinyl lettering he paid the shop almost triple yesterday to do while he stood at their counter and waited, ahead of all their other holiday orders.

He swallows. “My daughter.”

She freezes; hesitantly he reaches one hand to rest on her shoulder.

“Winta?”

“You mean it?”

He blinks, unsurprised by but also unprepared for her tears. “I – yeah, I’m sure. Look, I got me one too.”

He reaches up from his kneeling position and pulls another apron off the hook, showing her the matching lettering on its front. “This says _mi papi_. That means my daddy. Since you’re always in here helping me I though you’d like it if we – “

The rest of his little speech gets cut off when he finds himself with a double-armful of nine-year-old girl. She’s latched around his neck with all the ferocity of a wild animal, but the way she burrows her head into his shoulder and cries makes something in his chest crack in two.

“Hey.” He says quietly, voice low and soothing. “ _Hey_. You keep this up and I’m gonna think you don’t like it.”

“I like it,” she all but wails. “I like it _so much_ , can I wear it now?”

“Of course you can,” he tells her, pulling back to wipe her tears away with his thumbs. “It’s yours, for the rest of your life if you want it. Okay?”

She sniffles. “Can…do you really wanna be my dad?”

“Yes.” He takes her little, sweet hands in his. “Winta, you know I’m really new at this. I’m going to make a lot of mistakes. But if you’re willing to work with me, and help me learn, I’ll do my best to be the dad you deserve. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, finally smiling through her tears and hugging him tight again.

“Oof,” he complains dramatically. “Is this how it’s gonna be? Trying to suffocate me?”

She giggles. “Yep. I love you, Daddy.”

Dyn looks up, sees Omera standing in the doorway holding his son, with tears and a breathtaking smile on her face. He hugs his girl a little tighter.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for the Christmas fic! I'm so touched that so many of you have enjoyed the journey thus far. I'm very happy to hear that some of you don't even celebrate Christmas and still found my little story engaging and entertaining. My family and I don't celebrate this holiday religiously at all, so for us it's aaaalll about the cheesiness. Whatever holiday you celebrate, I hope it's one filled with love and joy and peace, both for yourself and between you and your loved ones.
> 
> Thank you so very much for reading. Stay tuned for further adventures as Dyn and his family learn about and celebrate various other holidays!


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